Salvation
by riane
Summary: 'I’m faintly horrified at myself when I admit, not for the first time, that I’ve lost the will to live.'


Title: Salvation  
Author: riane  
Rating: PG13  
Summary: "I'm faintly horrified at myself when I admit, not for the first time, that I've lost the will to live."  
Spoilers: None. This is _totally_ AU. Vaughn isn't even mentioned. Assume he's been shipped off somewhere. 

Disclaimer: If I owned any of this, I wouldn't be writing about it!   
Author's note: Ok it's another Sarkney. Hee! Sark's POV, 1st person narrative. Written for all you Sarkaholics out there. Romance/Angst. 

Feedback: Please? Pretty please? The more descriptive, the better. *hugs you* 

Thanks: Big hugs for mnemosyne and eliza/Ho1 (my newest beta!) for their fantastic editing. And for helping me through my RL-induced breakdown a few days ago *grin* Couldn't have finished this story without you, girls! I thought I'd never get this done. *sighs with relief* 

I knew it would end, sooner or later_._

 Like a carefully spun tapestry unwound with the right tugs at the right places, spilling and uncoiling its way into oblivion.

I watch her now, asleep next to me, moonlight gilding her face_. _Soft, even while she dreams.

*

She listens to me as I explain how she will exit the stage. No one can tell that my heart is ripping into bloody chunks from the steady tone of my voice. But she can. She knows that behind the calm and the cool eyes is a maelstrom of rediscovered emotion. I tell her that all she has to do is go back to L.A., since she was clever enough to pull off an extended six month leave. A little smile quirks her lips. 

The hard part is to systematically remove all traces of me from her life. Because we both know that any tangible reminder of what we shared would be too much to bear.

*

'Start with your bedroom,' I say quietly, answering her unspoken question, her eyes mirroring mine in their anguish. 

'Oh,' she replies, remembering the gifts I would surprise her with - the bracelet, the earrings, the silver fountain pen…and many others. Little things she could bring with her wherever she went, the closest she would come to holding my hand. Before, when things were uncomplicated.

'Even though I won't look at them?'

'Even though you won't look at them.'

Her face crumples then she recovers within a heartbeat, knowing that this is not the time or place to break down. Not when we're this close. _Thisclose _to saying goodbye, to erasing almost a lifetime's worth of joy. 

I've run out of things to say. She knows what has to be done. And she will do it, with her brisk efficiency, crying only when pain clogs up her throat so much she can't breathe. 

*

'All packed?' I ask, hoping I don't fall apart. She nods and smiles bravely.

'I'm sorry I can't send you off at the airport.'

She shrugs. 'It's okay.'

I pause. The pounding in my head and the screaming in my veins are making too much noise for me to differentiate between what I should and shouldn't say. This is the part where I say something moving, dramatic, poetic, heart-stoppingly beautiful…but all I can think of is how can I wake up tomorrow and not see her beside me?

I can't I can't I can't do this. Then she grasps my face with her hands and kisses me deeply and I sob into her mouth, knowing that I can't go on like this not knowing not feeling not being with her -

'I love you,' she whispers before slipping out of my life like the leaves blown off the stark autumn pavement.

*

I never realised how cold winter could be. 

*

The nights are longer than the days. I am forced by the solitude and the aching emptiness to reminisce, to unravel the mystery of how I rediscovered my soul and defrosted my heart. 

Sitting by the fireplace I remember how she would curl up in my arms before the warm embers and rest her head on the crook my neck, her breath sighing onto my skin as we spoke. We would smile about our past; being arch-enemies was enjoyable in its own right, but the role of lovers suited us far better. 

'When did you know….' she asked me once, her question hanging in the air like a punctured silvery cobweb shimmering in the soft breeze.  I smiled and said, 'Somewhere in between our last death threat and the realisation that we wouldn't need to fight anymore.'

She had giggled, sounding so much like what happens when you let children loose on sprawling green meadows, and said it was the same for her, too.

*

Sloane had died, ironically, from a heart attack. In the confusion that followed, the CIA was able to storm SD-6 and shut all the other cells down from the intel they extracted.

  
To cut a long story short, SD-6 and the Alliance were dissolved. Derevko was reported dead as a result of suicide. 

I had to leave the country. Naturally. My status of being a wanted criminal still held, regardless of the circumstances. Sydney was granted her extended leave. 

She followed me. 

I realised then that I loved her, as she stood next to my private jet, her jaw set with grim determination. 'I'm going with you, whether you like it or not,' she said firmly, gripping the handle of her suitcase. 

Bliss ensued. I had forgotten how it felt to wake up and not reach for my gun. I reached for the soft curve of her neck instead. Her very presence was intoxicating. Her smile, her touch, her laughter, even her tears, breathed life into my once-cold eyes.

I received a letter five months and twenty days after we went overseas. 

'Your betrayal will not go unpunished - stay with her, and she will suffer too.'

I remember that night with frightening clarity. The feel of the smooth paper in my hand, the scent of Irina's perfume, the sight of her elegant script. The tilt of Sydney's head as she regarded me with puzzlement. And realisation.

'You're shaking,' she said softly, standing beside me and cupping my cheek with her hand. 

'It's getting late. You should rest.' 

She sighed, resting her forehead against mine. 'Will you tell me who sent that?'

'Irina Derevko.' 

I held her as her knees gave way.

*

We fought. Bitterly. I was adamant that the only solution was for us to part ways, and not contact each other. 

'Until we find her?' she pleaded.

'There's no guarantee we ever will,' I sighed. 'She's brilliant, Sydney. She makes the rules. We fell into her trap.'

She slapped me.

'You call this a trap?' she seethed, tears burning her eyes. 'You call all this…everything we've shared…a _trap?'_

I knew that I should have agreed and left her angry at me, to make our eventual separation easier_. Instead, my vision blurred and I avoided her gaze, staring pointedly at the doorway behind us._

She flung her arms around me and wept helplessly, whispering, 'I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry. You're right. We won't ever get to see each other, will we? I can't do this. I can't.'

But we did, somehow. And now I die a little more each day.

*

Six months have passed since she left. Each one has crept into the next with painstakingly slowness.

I keep tabs on her, telling my informants to only contact me if something goes wrong. 

I wake up gasping in the middle of the night, dreading that call. Much like living in the perpetual fear of a falling guillotine - except in this case, death is far easier.

*

One Friday evening, I get the phone call. 

Car accident. 

I memorise the address of the hospital and hang up.

*

I know I should be wearing a disguise of some sort. Dye my hair a darker shade. Coloured contacts. Something. Anything. But by this point, eight months without even the sound of her voice, I don't care anymore. 

I want her to wake up and see me. 

I slip easily through the bustling hospital corridor. Nobody tends to worry about apprehending a wanted criminal when people are moaning and losing blood all over the place.

'Sydney Bristow,' I say to the lady behind the counter, the words thick on my tongue.

'I'm sorry, but she's still in intensive care. Are you family?' She looks at me over her horn-rimmed glasses, and I don't have to pretend to look distraught.

'No,' I rush, tripping over my words, desperate to see her. 'I'm her ex-boyfriend.' Her left eyebrow rises. 

'I'm afraid I'll have to call her father to approve your visit-' 

'No! Please. He's the reason we had to break up.'

I look at her meaningfully. She sighs and leads me to the I.C.U. 'Don't take very long.' 

She's asleep. But nothing like I've ever seen. Not the reckless splay of hair and limbs that I'm so used to. 

I slowly drag a chair beside her and slip my fingers in between hers, choking on my laboured breaths.

She feels so cold.

I start talking. Mumbling inanities keeps my rising terror at bay. 

Her fingers move away.

She's looking at me with eyes I don't recognise.

'Why did you come?'

I stand up and leave before she can see the anguish in my eyes.

*

It's better this way. 

I watch the party light up her apartment from my Mercedes. She was released from hospital a week before. It's her birthday today.

My gift is normality, I whisper softly, still unable to quell the sadness that rises like vomit in my throat. 

I half-gasp when I see her walk out and stand outside, staring up at the sky. We used to star-gaze, all those lifetimes ago_._

Will is calling her back into the house. She smiles and waves him away. 

I fight the desperate urge to jump out of the car and grab her by the wrist, demanding to know why she tossed me aside. I love her, don't I? This is her chance to be happy. Leaving me behind. Starting a family with a good man, and not living under the shadow of fear…she deserves that, and so much more.

Goodbye Sydney. Beloved.

I rest my head on the steering wheel, letting grief overwhelm me at last. __

I was marked for death the moment I fell in love.

*

Months pass. I spend my time doing the unthinkable - slowly finding ways and means to extract myself from the web of lies and deceit that I have called home for far too long. 

My ever-shrinking list of contacts say nothing, but I know that behind the fake smiles and firm handshakes are clandestine meetings and secret phone calls. All are discussing the odd behaviour of Mr Sark_._

Who will inherit my bloodstained throne?

*

I knew this day would come.

'You're a fool, Sark,' she says coldly. 'I gave you everything. Wealth. Power. Prestige.'

'Sydney,' I remind her calmly. Her palm cracks across my face, and I taste blood.

'You threw all that away for her?'

I nod.

'Have you forgotten, Sark, that love causes pain?'

'No,' I say softly.

'What else does love cause?'

I close my eyes. 

I remember mornings so bright it seemed darkness would never come. 

I remember sunsets so beautiful it took my breath away. 

I remember skies so clear it gave me reason to hope.

'Death.'

The first bullet rips through my right thigh. And then my left. I collapse onto the hard cement and feel another two in each of my arms. I hear her anguished sobs, and know that I was very much her favourite protégé. Who has now outlived his usefulness. 

Through the haze of agony and tears I see her shakily level her gun over my chest. 

She looks so much like Sydney.

'Do it,' I whisper. 

Gunshots resound. But not hers. Her body falls next to mine.

My unlikely saviour lifts up my battered body and barks out orders that jar me as much as the callous toss into the waiting stretcher.

Jack Bristow.

I fight to maintain consciousness as he slaps a breathing mask over my face, his expression a combination of pity and disgust.

My last coherent thought is a string of expletives, followed by, 'He knows.'

*

Coffee.

I groggily force my leaden eyelids open and see an innocuous mug lying on the bedside table, tantalising wafts of steam rising into the air. 

'How long have I been unconscious?' I croak.

'Three days. You've lost a lot of blood.' 

'I'm not dying am I?'

He chuckles dryly. 'You're not that lucky.'

'Irina…?'

I shift my gaze towards him. His countenance hardens.

'She's in worse shape. Still in a coma. When she wakes up, we'll put her on trial.' He pauses. 'Thank you.'

Even in my pathetic state, I have the audacity to roll my eyes. 'You don't know half of it. I didn't do it for the CIA.'

He stands up and looms above me, looking very intimidating indeed. Pity crosses his features again, and I sigh inwardly. I'm too damned tired to take offence.

'You're going to have to go on trial too, Sark.'

I nod, closing my eyes against the barrage of a future I had never imagined. It was supposed to end that night. With five strategically placed bullets. Despair tightens my throat as I contemplate the days to come. I'm faintly horrified at myself when I admit, not for the first time, that I've lost the will to live. 

'Lethal injection,' I say softly. 'If you don't mind.'

*

She's not coming.

I realise this as I sit silently on my bed, staring out of the window. Morning has come; sunlight spreads across the sky, like slow, deliberate brush-strokes. 

I miss her.

Jack comes by once a week to monitor my rehabilitation, and to extract useful information. I give him names, places, deadlines - everything. It's been a month since I woke up, and I know that I won't see her again. 

Jack is at the door now, watching me in silence. I sigh and he proceeds with the usual questions. 

'Thank you,' he says finally, when the last of what I know is jotted down in coarse black ink. I nod. 

'Your co-operation should make your sentence lighter. Especially after Irina's death, and the dissolving of her criminal empire.' 

Ironic isn't it? She's escaped death so many times, yet her demise came on a cold hospital bed.

I shrug and lie down again, facing the cream-coloured wall and closing my eyes.

*

I sit down, exhausted, after my routine exercises. Did she have to shoot all my limbs? 

I feel a light tap on my elbow. I turn my head and see a dark-haired boy grinning up at me.

'Hey Mister. I'm Joey.' He grabs my hand and shakes it firmly. 'What's your name?'

'Mr. Sark,' I smile, despite myself. 

He grins again, and I remember not having any reason to grin when I was his age.

'I broke my leg a while ago,' he says, 'I fell off my bike.' He looks at me expectantly, and I wonder if I should shatter his childhood innocence with my story.

'I got hit by a truck. Hurt both my arms and legs.' That's not much of a lie. Irina was worse than a speeding truck.

He grimaces. 'Jeez. That has to hurt. Anyhow, you'll be staying here long, won't you?'

I nod, secretly glad I'll have Joey to keep me company. 'I'll be here too, so that's cool. We can be friends, yeah?'

'Sure thing, Joey. Sure thing.'

*

I sigh with poorly hidden longing as Joey relates comical stories from his colourful childhood. '..and the time I stuck a stink bomb under the kitchen cupboard? Oh you should've seen the look on my mother's face. She was so angry she took a broom and chased me around the house. But I was too fast for her.' 

A solidly built lady in her mid forties sits next to us, and Joey whispers that she reminds him of her grandmother - '..who just won't stop talking!' 

'The food in this place is terrible!' she complains, and I hide a smile. Her accent hints of kitchens overpowered by delicious aromas of creamy pastas and mouth-watering lasagnes. 

Joey laughs. 'I'm going. See ya!' 

'Joey-'

She laughs boisterously, and slaps me heartedly on the back.

'Let him go. What is your name?'

Coughing, I tell her, 'Mr. Sark.'

She laughs again. 'You have no first name?'

I give her a lopsided smile. 'It's a long story.'

She regards me with mock seriousness and says, 'Well, Mr. Sark, my name is Gabriella Giannini and you can call me Mrs. Giannini.' She winks, and I laugh.

'I have been watching you,' she says knowingly. 'Your eyes are always so sad.'

I lower my head, embarrassed. 'There isn't much to smile about, in my life.'

She tsk-tsks and lifts my chin up. 'Not if you have family.'

'I don't have family.' Never before has saying that scalded my tongue. 

Her mouth becomes an oval of surprise before she quickly ruffles my hair.

'Now you do. When I get better, Mr. Sark, you will come to my house, yes, and you will have dinner with all the Gianninis.'

And that marks the beginning of another unlikely friendship. We talk for hours sometimes, after she is done with her exercises, and I am done with mine. It begins with her telling me her unfortunate accident while walking down a steep flight of stairs, and I relate to her my story of the speeding truck. Her reaction is even funnier than Joey's - she shrieks and berates me for not looking left or right. She speaks about her family with loving pride, and I tell her what I remember of my childhood. 

The parts that won't make her cry.

'Is there a woman in your life?' she asks me one lazy Sunday afternoon. I pause, then sigh, smiling sadly.

'She loved me once,' I say softly, 'a very long time ago.'

'Before the truck, yes?'

I chuckle. 'Before the truck.'

She sighs and pats my hand. 'Maybe she will come back when you get better.'

I shake my head, unable to speak anymore. I focus on the rapidly blurring abstract painting on the wall.

She gently steers the rest of the conversation towards her delicious cooking.

*

'Sark…' 

Joey tells me to pass the dice. I tell him to come back in half an hour. He looks up at Jack, looks down at me, then shrugs and slowly makes his way out - obviously unhappy at the interruption of his Monopoly winning streak.

I sit on my bed, and Jack, to my surprise, sits next to me. He looks at the wall, and I'm more than happy with that.

'I haven't been visiting because of...other commitments. You'll be released in a few days, and I'm sure you're aware of that.'

I nod. 

'Your trial will be held soon after. From what I know, I'm fairly certain your sentence will be light. The intel you've given us has been immensely helpful.'

He pauses, and once again, I fight the urge to ask him about Sydney.

'Thank you,' he says quietly. 'I never imagined a day where I'd be thanking a former assassin and right hand man to Irina Derevko, but sometimes things don't quite turn out the way we picture them.'

He looks at me meaningfully and I wonder if that was his way of expressing his sympathy about what happened with Sydney. 

He gets up and leaves, and I cover my face with my hands and whisper her name.

*

I do the secret handshake with Joey one last time. 'Here's my number,' I say, giving him my business card, 'call me if you need anything.' He smiles and nods his head.

Mrs Giannini hugs me so tightly I have trouble breathing. Her eyes water as she shakily orders me to visit. She firmly places a crumpled piece of paper in my hand. 'My address and phone number,' she says, waggling her finger at me, 'so now you have no excuse not to come!' I smile and gently kiss her cheek.

'I promise I will come as soon as I can.'

I know she wants to ask me about Sydney but there is only so much I can take, so I wave goodbye and walk stiffly to the exit, where I know Jack and other CIA agents will be waiting. 

I pause for a moment and close my eyes, breathing in my last moments of pseudo-freedom.

When I open them again, Sydney is there.

My heart jumps to my throat and I blink furiously, knowing that this can't be possibly be true - she abandoned me so long ago - that can't be her. 

But it is.

Her hair is longer, her eyes are sadder, but it _is _her, standing by the exit, clutching a folder to her chest, watching me. I want to run and hide and not see her because I want to cry and I can't cry Mr. Sark doesn't cry he is strong and cunning and brilliant - and he doesn't fall in love. But he did. I love her so much it hurts and I can't move any closer without wanting to sweep her in my arms and weep into her mouth and ask her why she left me why she let go of me so easily when every night I dream about her.

She moves towards me.

'Thank you for co-operating,' she says softly. 'We wouldn't have accomplished what we did without your help.'

I nod, barely restrained sobs choking my throat. 

'Follow me.'

The car ride to the courtroom is filled with tension and unspoken questions. The guards in the backseat watch me warily, but I am no threat, because I am drunk on her perfume and the very sight of her. 

If I don't live to see tomorrow, at least I have today. 

She pulls over and we step out of the car, and make our way to the courthouse.

I watch the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the way she whispers to the guards and the lawyers, the way she speaks quietly to her father, and I know I could watch her forever and be content. 

The trial ends quickly. I am guilty of the crimes I have committed, but am also responsible for ending Irina's reign. They offer me a choice - work for the CIA, or spend the rest of my days on a beautiful tropical island, under constant surveillance.

I swallow thickly and tell them my answer, and murmurs ripple through the courtroom. 

When I step outside, Sydney pulls me into a corner and grabs my arms. 'Why did you say that? You were supposed to say you wanted to work for the CIA! You're happy being confined?'

She's crying and I'm utterly confused. 'I don't think I could stay sane, working with you, and knowing that you don't…' I can't complete my sentence because suddenly she's kissing me and I kiss her back with equal desperation, tangling my trembling fingers through her hair.

I tell the judge I changed my mind.

*

We have dinner at the Giannini's.

Mrs. Giannini adores Sydney, and jokes about my inability to cross roads, and the dangers of speeding trucks.

Sydney laughs indulgently, and does a great job of covering up her confusion. 

*

She explains everything to me later that night, as she runs her fingers along my arm. 'After the car accident, I knew that you would come.' Her voice is soft and I press my lips against her neck. 'Irina was still a threat at the time…that's why I told you to go.' She swallows. 'It was the hardest thing I ever had to do. Dad…he knew about us. He figured it out. So he had cameras installed in my ward…that's how he followed you to Irina.' She touches my cheek. 'I'm so sorry.'

I chuckle and kiss her, and say there's nothing to be sorry about.

She smiles. 'Now what's this about speeding trucks?' 

*

END


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